


GOT Simulation: During AGOT

by CreativeLiterature



Series: GOT Simulation [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28521870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeLiterature/pseuds/CreativeLiterature
Summary: During the events of AGOT, three friends play self-inserts which the simulation aligns with their best qualities. Their best, worst qualities.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Kyra
Series: GOT Simulation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089383
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Adam, Clara, and Max sat in front of the simulation panels, choosing to play characters from Game of Thrones which best fit their qualities as at the start of ASOIAF, and while the usual suspects were drawn up…

"I'll probably be Jaime, he's so honorable deep down," Adam commiserated. "Or Tywin. I like to command. Or Loras! Because he's a famous, handsome swordfighter."

"No cocka," Clara spat. "You'll beJoffrey, or Viserys, 'cos he's always railing on about his rights - "

And as the tumult began, nobody had noticed during the simulation's countdown, and Aemon raising his hands that they all might disintegrate into the blue, that this _was_ Game of Thrones, after all… and even Viserys dreamed one thing and got another.

Adam/WALDER

Adam's first thought was that he must still be dreaming; he must be stuck in a sort of limbo, for he could barely move: aha! He knew he was Doran for his gout, though he saw no hint of sunshine through the windows but for the rushing of water.

And then he saw the weasely, ferrety look of one of his sons and knew he shared the look.

"Father," Ser Stevron clasped his hands. "There is importance news I felt you should hear before breaking your fast."

"I can't move," Adam argued, for his legs would not obey. "If -if you would help me, please."

Surprised, Ser Stevron helped Walder to his feet; servants bathed and dressed him, all in an irascible silence. Adam's shoulders rose and sighed and fumed at his inability to conduct his own affairs, and felt the sheer damp, frettiness and bold insularity of the castle; and wondered how on earth he could be a cripple invalid for a _year_.

He held onto Ser Stevron's arm who leaned his mouth towards his ear:

"The Hand of the King is dead," he uttered. "The king means to ride north, and dine at our castle along the way."

Adam's mind would ordinarily go to logistics and organising an impressive feast: why, with the Frey tolls, surely there must be some in the vault to impress… a fat king, a vain queen and a brat of an heir.

Adam saw as he was assisted into the great hall, so many weasley ferrety heirs and his brood; vying for space, calling his name, as Adam was dropped into his seat behind the high table.

His eyes scanned the room: servants began doling out trenchers and pouring wine; Frey men with arms coughed and chattered, not like any battle was about to break around among the lute players; and Adam saw an enduring enmity of cause; and his thoughts coiled back to: how could the simulation have it so wrong? He was no Walder Frey.

He stooped his mouth to his bowl, a pea soup, and his memory jarred that he might not savor anything worth crunching: he had no teeth, and his eyes burned that others might do or have what he could not do or have, even as a Lord of the Crossing. He should! Why him?

Clara/OLENNA

Clara could smell the golden roses; the fruits of Highgarden, the scent of rosewater as the servants bathed and dressed her in green Tyrell clothing, and yet as she reached for her walking stick, she felt as useless as a third nipple.

"Get out," Clara ordered, and the servants buckled, and in walked in Erryk and Arryk. "What do you want?"

They glanced at one another. "We're to protect you, my lady."

"Good," Clara muttered to herself. Some form of soldiers might come in handy. "Follow me."

As though Erryk and Arryk had been carrying the mantle always, they took to either side. Clara found a Myrish glass and despaired her lines, sunken in which no makeup would remove; she had privately always relied upon the stares of idiot men who put her on a pedestal, and to hold at arm's length anyone who might cause her harm.

And yet, who would want to get with her? If she had ever wished for peace, she merely need stay in her chambers! What of her needs? What if she did find someone?

She panicked but kept her back erect as the doors were opened and led out onto a bridge and balcony leading over to other parts of the castle; three ringed walls leading down to fields of farmland and produce and flowers, the most beautiful that which did not touch her soul.

Aches like the beginning of roiling earthquakes flared in her sides and in her bones; she could feel slight pain in her gums where her teeth used to be; and how slow she had to walk frightened her, so how could she possibly escape a wandering hand?

But then, no hand would go near her. She had only her wits, and she had these two.

In breaking their fast, Clara spied the Tyrell family laid out in a little tableau. The food brought almost tears to her eyes that she could not eat any; she _hated_ being told no, and so she took her seat beside Alerie, sweet and kind and one who she would have to find out where her true loyalties lay.

She peered around the room: bumbling Fat Flower Mace, Willas whose cane whacked the flagstones, Garlan who smiled to his wife Leonette, Loras who laughed with Margaery, ever so sweet.

 _She_ is who I should be, Clara resolved. Except I would be a great deal more cautious in my conduct. Laughter is an open invitation for a man to swoop in.

Clara watched the room, and wondered if it was Olenna's wit that so fit with her own. Of course, Olenna was barb tongued. That must be it. But a year? A year as this old crone?

"Oh, mother," Mace's corners of his mouth drew down. "It's the king's Hand."

"Oh, that," Clara blurted, and tried briefly to summon where the Tyrells sat in the precedence of events. "We'll be fine."

Max/THEON

Max was not particularly introspective, and when he bounded out of bed with what rewarded him with a sidelong glance from Kyra shuffling through Winterfell to the winter town, it was all he needed to know.

Whatever the simulation had dealt him, he was at least a hornbag, and so was Theon, or so he remembered from the few episodes he had watched with Clara.

Max engaged himself in sparring with the sword, practising archery and riding horseback; and if when seated at the great hall he received only curt or indifferent replies from most, at least with Robb he might find the closest thing to a friend.

Yet the vague, unspeakable stench of what he thought was a fart he ripped in the hall spread over the hall like a glaze. His presence, much like Jon Snow's, was a bit of a discomfort Max came to understood.

And he _had_ noticed the kraken surcoat in his chest. He knew Theon was a Greyjoy, not a _Stark_ ; he was not so great a fool as to forget or to think Catelyn and Ned were his parents. Yet having a mother who doted on _him_ and not Clara made him unused to Catelyn's indifferent stares, and having lost his father quite young, he was offset to find that Ned, however gaunt and grave and honor bound, did not quite look at him the way he would want a father to look at him.

When he pillowed Kyra and broke, what was at least his real life virginity, he was spent of any built up ardor which began to settle on the fact that he was vaguely unwanted here.

Yet for a year at the dawn of events to come, Max consoled himself that there were opportunities many. He had caught sight of one or two servants or guardsmen whispering. He was part of the furniture; that old lampshade you could not throw out because it was gifted to you by someone who visited often. But it was ugly and held bad reminders.

And Max did not mean to be left out in the dirt. His jokes, off-colour never really hit the mark in Winterfell, either; their eyes went over his shoulder, and to deny him a fraternity of camaraderie was the last straw.

It was when he saw Catelyn busying about the yard hustling Bran to climb down that he remembered the party of royals who were bound to visit. And he thumbed the dirk at his side and wondered what chaos he might cause, and figured the simulation knew what it was doing.


	2. Chapter 2

Adam/WALDER

Adam offered his seat at the high table to King Robert and Queen Cersei, both miffed, bitter by close quarters to one another, and barely able to lift their eyes from their plate or the scene of Freys to pay attention to him.

At least the Frey coffers were well enough full to pay for such an expense; the servant girls held eyes for Jaime Lannister, and of a different sort for the waddling Imp; the Kingsguard in their white, Barristan with his gruff white hair.

Adam knew it was only a matter of form; that it was an honor to pay court to the king, even if he was a fat drunk oaf and his wife a golden queen of green eyed opportunity.

The only claim Adam might hold was by Emmon's wife Genna Lannister, but that was hardly worth anything when Lord Tywin spoke out against the match in his youth and likely felt the same continuing into the present.

There was so little to be gained, thought Adam, when the royal party went to their chambers, and the litterings of the feast was left to the servants and the dogs.

Adam was assisted into his chambers, which he hadn't offered to the king and queen for the rank smell of the dressings which sweet smelling rushes could not eliminate. He had begun to hate the sight of his chamber pot, not least for which it was never comfortable for a man his age. He had to be ferried around with one Frey or another; their grimaces enough to turn his stomach.

He was the loneliest Frey in the twins, and his betrothed, Joyeuse, could barely meet his eye; it went without saying that Adam kept the marriage ceremony indefinitely postponed for he daren't bed a girl in his condition, and so the whispers subsumed that he was unable to perform, and the postponement but a face-saving solution.

Adam stared up at the canopy of his bed, the nitre walls dripping, the sound of the Green Fork rushing underneath the bridge which connected the Twins, the murmurings and coughs of guards outside his door, and wondered what was to come.

He could be of no help but one: and even that, would be a sore point indeed.

Clara/OLENNA

Clara made into the chambers where her son sat with his advisers. The Lord seneschal Garth, the maester Lomys, chiefly in attendance. Her cane whacked the flagstones as she took a seat beside her son, and watched their male eyes upon her as Erryk and Arryk took to steadied, reputable silence.

"Well? Continue," Clara nodded.

And so she listened on but a minute of their drabble; upkeep of Highgarden, influx of gold, of land and produce and shipments and logistics… what she cared for was _alliances_ ; what she meant to pour into Mace's head was that the time had come for action.

She knew what would come to pass and that the fruitful Highgarden fields would remain untouched within the year; yet she wanted to play the 'game'. She wanted influence.

She was not a doddering old woman; she was not content to sit aside like Lady Alerie with her sewing. She rapped her cane on the benches when the talk became less of logistics and more of bluster and humour.

"Are we here to laugh or to decide policy?" Clara demanded. "Out. I would talk with my son."

"We are talking, we're sharing amusing stories - "

"No," her voice leapt an octave. "We'll get nothing done if you sit around and smile about your great, late victories. Now get out."

And so Mace was alone with his mother, and Erryk and Arryk remained like statues.

"What do you think of this business, hmm?" Clara presupposed of her son. She would spit it in his face if he could not work it out; _she_ could not work out if, like her, he was concealing an intelligence behind a facade. "The Hand dying? The king going north?"

"He must have a Hand, mother," counseled Mace. "And Lord Stark aided him demonstrably during the rebellion. They were wards of Jon Arryn. He took to us when we had about captured Storm's End… "

"Nonsense," Clara interrupted. "I don't care about what happened in the past. What is happening _now_? What are you doing to secure the future of this House?"

"It has long been our plan, Mother, to see Margaery as queen," Mace reminded her. "Renly will run interference with Loras to sway Robert's mind to Margaery. If he could set Cersei aside… "

Clara rolled her eyes. "Well, that'll never happen. Believe me. He hates Tyrells, and he's already got this nonsense to distract him. There'll be more that'll happen this year and he'll not notice Margaery if she's not even _there_ to sway him."

"Renly h-has a locket," Mace stammered. "Your granddaughter looks the spitting image of Lyanna Stark, it can be argued."

"No," Clara sounded him out. "Let's be honest, that's never going to happen."

"It was your idea, mother," Mace stammered. "Margaery is to be queen."

"Not Robert's," Clara snorted. "Not anytime soon. Now let's focus. What else do we have on the table?"

"Well, how far do you want to look?" Mace walked around to pull a cartographer's estimate of Westeros, and Clara envied that even fat, Mace could move faster than her. "It's not as though our vassals have cause to complain. Of course, you know my wife is a Hightower, as was Leonette a Fossoway, and your own lineage a Redwyne… "

"I won't suffer a disunited Reach," Clara jabbed her finger at the map. "This one? Tarly?"

"Well, yes," Mace frowned. "But Mother, I fear I am only condescending to remind you of things you already know."

The silence was as stale as Clara's breath. She could barely chew mint, or enough of it to cover the smell.

"Who is his heir?" Clara barked.

"Samwell, or at least… " Mace scratched his chin. "I believe he volunteered for the Wall, of late. That would make Dickon his heir."

"And Dickon?" Clara's memory fogged.

"One-and-eleven years, I should think," Mace presupposed.

"Young," Clara commemorated. "And not an idiot? Not a gross mishap of misogyny?"

"He is rather like his father," Mace replied, discomfited. "Bullheaded for battle, determined for duty."

"Then invite him," Clara rapped her cane on the table. "And his father. And what of Willas?"

"What?" Mace caught the slip, and he reddened. "Surely, mother? You are not meaning wedding _Margaery_ to Dickon?"

"You will listen to me," Clara leaned in. "You will take my advice and carry it out. I won't have Margaery throttled and abused by that brute of a king. And I don't mean to look further than these fields for alliances which are, around this time of year, overlapping and fracturing and where we may never see her again."

"Margaery is of a Great House, my only daughter," Mace drew himself up. "Even to a veritable Tarly, she deserves better."

"No," Olenna rested her cane on Mace's shoulder who buckled. "She deserves a _good_ husband. And I mean to see to it that if not Dickon, then someone who will. She needn't marry at all, if that's the case; but I will not have our alliances fracture if she would grab some happiness by the end of it. And so, I return to my question. Willas?"

Mace rose and gathered his things, and puffed up his pride. "Mother, this conversation is at an end."

And Clara could not rush after him, and he glanced over his shoulder as Clara stewed and sunk in her chair, and she reminded herself that Mace liked food, and so a plan began forming.

Max/THEON

Max watched with his gangly legs and avid eyes, as the royal party made their way into Winterfell. They ate and drank and, from the sounds where the Imp made his home in the brothel, screwed quite frequently.

He had wanted a direwolf pup, but Jon Snow had replied that it was more fitting he should have a kraken… and Max imagined, sourly, the limbs of a gigantic kraken taking Winterfell apart like lego blocks, and wondered what they'd have to say to that.

He glimpsed the fat king and the beautiful queen, the churlish heir and smirking Kingslayer and waddling Imp at the feast, and he ate on the lower benches and wondered what _they_ thought of him; surely, Max thought, he'd be more suited to Joffrey.

Joffrey was a scab, an idiot; entitled, but a bit cunning, and he'd make _savoir faire_ where Joffrey bumbled. He didn't care for all that entitlement crap. He knew how to make hard decisions; not unlike Ramsay, but without such a blood deep sadistic streak.

Why had he been Theon? Max mulled over this with some consideration. Theon was arrogant, laughing and handsome. But as he was gathering, and reminding, Theon was also uncertain, yearning for home, and had no clear ties. And besides, he was less a ward than he was a hostage.

And as Max glanced around, moody as the royal party went to their bedchambers and so too did the Starks, he was beginning to feel an air of oppression. There really was no one to vouch for him; he held no stronger a familial association here than he did to Clara with whom he bickered and his mother who coddled him on account on losing his father.

And Max had been a shoplifter and a pilferer at friend's houses and professed no particular loyalty to anyone behind their backs. And so he ruminated Theon might be the fit after all; and that this realisation struck further home than the confines of this simulation made him bang his knife against his trencher and storm out into the cold outdoors.


	3. Chapter 3

Adam/WALDER

Adam was assisted onto one of the balconies with parapets overlooking the Green Fork; and thought vaguely that, if not for his guards, surely Stevron would push him over the edge. It would make him lord; for all his clear indication that he put family first.

On the air, was the taste of salt and the birds flying high, their movement a burn in his stomach, along the usual illnesses that rocked him; Adam had spent a week in bed after the royal visit, and the Freys had gathered round that it might be the end.

Worse, was his reappearance at the next feast for dinner. Their eyes held such refrain, contempt, and disappointment that he still sat there; he wondered indeed how he could hold his head up and his back straight. Any composure cost him. He could not pretend to be anything other than an old man, for he was; and this mortality, he knew, was not just within the walls of this simulation.

Was this how people saw him? Was this how Clara or Max saw him, loyal to them only by their continued proximity? What if they left, would he continue to act in their best interests? And if they remained, and Adam was old, would they look after him, not wishing him gone for irritability's sake?

He wondered where they were, and guessed that Clara with her refusal for capitulation must be Cersei; but when the royal party had stayed, he saw how she chatted with Jaime, and knew that for naught. Even Max, who was tubby where Robert was fat; that was dismayed at the bitterness with which he glanced at his wife. _That_ was bitterness over a lifelong feud which Max was too young to know; all of them were too young for this.

Adam was but a teenager, in the sagging, infirm bones and body of _Walder Frey_. Was it to pay him back? Was he old because he feared it, because old people knew no warm hearts? No, it was more than that. Walder Frey was cunning, and disloyal… or was he?

An uncertainty of loyalty rocked Adam. Was he only loyal to Clara and Max for their proximity? To anyone? Did he truly prize friendship?

His gaping, internal thoughts made Stevron wonder if his father truly had lost his marbles.

Clara/OLENNA

"Lord Tarly," Mace made the greetings once in the great hall; a comparison from one Fat Flower to a stern razorblade of an unbending martial. His eyes went to Clara who watched from a balcony, and the two men went into their chambers.

Dickon was left with Garlan, to tour and to spar however unmatched they were, and servants scurried for the last minute preparations which always arose no matter how well laid plans were.

Clara meant to intercede on Mace's deliberations with Randyll, the latter who surely could not guess the reason for the visit beyond simply hospitality and honouring a favored vassal. She meandered towards the courtyard where Garlan and Dickon clashed swords; the former who could fight three on one, and Dickon fought admirably enough, but Clara's eyes were upon him all the same.

"Young man," Clara felt confident enough to address him as an old lady would; it was not just her persnicketiness over being an infirm, misunderstood old woman which helped form part of a guide.

Dickon wandered over, and Garlan smiled to his grandmother and found other opponents while his blood was up; Clara ran her eyes over the slim youth, who was too young now of course, but who should reasonably measure with some thickening of muscle and of some comparable handsomeness. And she meant to put him through his paces.

"Come walk with me," Clara ordered, and Dickon, hospitality bound, could not refuse; she almost wished he would, for she craved to lash out for this body she must possess which confined her so. Her explosions of anger were used to, and Clara could now sympathise a bit better with Olenna, stuck as she was in Westeros with Mace's follies. Erryk and Arryk followed close behind, as usual.

"This is my son - grandson," Clara barely caught herself, upon catching Willas with his hounds. _He_ would be better suited for her hectoring, she knew.

"We have met," Willas inclined his head, and his hounds found time to lick his face in the space of time.

"Yes," Clara turned her head to Dickon. "And what do you think? My Willas is well suited for raising animals."

"Y-yes," Dickon blustered, not quite sure what the Queen of Thorns meant to prise from his cold, dead hands.

"You hunt?" Clara caught a snap and Dickon faltered.

"It is quite common, in these lands… "

"And you do not relish slitting their throats?" Clara leaned in. "You make _clean_ kills? You would not hurt these animals to make them _feel_ their pain, would you?"

"N-no," spoke the one-and-eleven Dickon Tarly, and with that Clara had some grim pride.

"Good," she rapped him on the shoulder, not unkindly. "Strength is important in a youth, but not cruelty. And no woman will take a cruel man, do you understand? Marriage is hard work not won by a _dominance_."

Dickon faltered; he had only ever seen his father easily buckle his wife with a look. She rarely spoke up, and so his parents' marriage he had seen that women remained quiet, never counteracted as Lady Olenna would surely have done to her husband who rode off a cliff.

Clara led him through Highgarden, and if Dickon expected a tour, or her to speak up about places of pride, he did not receive it. Erryk and Arryk were silent. She did not care to explain that which she did not know. She wanted a _reason_ to mistrust him. But he was easily shaped, and Margaery, who played with her three cousins with flower braids and laughing so gaily; she could see Dickon's face alight, and redden once caught. She would not solely strike Dickon's attraction on mere adolescent murmurings alone. And yet he surely must have never touched a woman so young.

"Every flower is a prize, young man," Clara rapped him harshly on the shoulder. "Even the most meek of servants, girls in the chimney sweep; you must treasure them. You must never assert your will on a woman."

"Never," Dickon stammered, and thought if anyone had asserted their will to the Lady Olenna, nobody now ever spoke or heard from them.

"Good," Clara nodded, and dismissed him to the sparring for which he was keen to escape from her.

Then, when Erryk and Arryk were a pace behind, and enjoying the air; Clara took the corner, found the spiral stairs which were her doom, and threw herself down them.

Max/THEON

Max had wanted to travel with Ned and the king's party, but of course he was to remain at Winterfell. At least Jon Snow had been gotten rid of; _he_ had gone to the Wall.

Yet at least with Robb nearby, he had somewhat a friend with which to spar and hunt.

And he had stood in the great hall with Robb and Luwin, when enough time had passed such that news had filtered through of Catelyn's capture of Tyrion… and Jaime Lannister's attack on Ned.

Such news did not trouble Max, behind his glittering facade; he sensed and saw Robb's fury as the maester counseled him, and Robb determined to call his banners, and Max hoped for war. He knew the story, but hoped for war so he might actually kill.

Bran was taken hunting on his little cripple horse, and Robb rode off while Max took aim behind some trees of the wildlings who threatened Bran. With aimed arrows he took them all, including the last who had time to flee, and Osha lay dead as Max rode up with Bran quite astounded, and Robb surprised with Grey Wind growling at Max.

"What happened?" Robb cried, and Max explained.

If this was meant to raise Max in Robb's eyes, it did not. His fear for his brother's safety, and that of his father, and of drums booming for war he knew of the vassals coming to Winterfell, melded into impatience and rhetoric. He rode with Bran at his side, and Max left feeling like nothing he could do would ever be good enough; and wondered if he should have shot Robb and Bran and blamed it on the wildlings.

Such thoughts never troubled him; but he knew he would be implicated, and if he could not get away with it, he would not risk it. But the thoughts behind the glittering facade remained, his eyes careful and watching for the opening with which he might draw his dirk.


	4. Chapter 4

Adam/WALDER

"I already know all this," Adam blurted, and surprised the Frey sons who bid him news of the events that had come to pass. "What does Edmure say?"

"He has heard mention of the Lannister army massing in the west," spoke Ser Stevron, who if by degrees could scarcely be called Adam's _preferred_ Frey with whom to converse, whose eyes lent less an ideal of his father dying than did the others. "Edmure requests aid upon the riverlands, of course ours to join him at Riverrun."

At this Adam stewed. Of course, the Frey levies would mean a most valuable effort to House Tully; theirs could levy more men than even Riverrun, and with a strategic response, _perhaps_ best Jaime underneath Edmure's command.

Yet Adam's hesitation was that he would be sending those several thousand men under the command of one of his sons, or to Edmure himself. And Edmure was a fool. Adam longed to ride a horse; to use his knowledge to ambush Jaime, knowing his movements; imagine! To take Jaime captive and so force Tywin's hand; he would not be able to cross if Riverrun was not captured, and the northerners would deal him a serious blow.

Yet all this was folly; Adam could not entrust this to his men, and it pained him as it did in his aches and his bowels that he could not ensure this certainty.

"Levy the men," Adam ordered. "And I will inspect the troops at the correct time."

"But we are to set off? We are to reply?" asked Ser Stevron.

"We are very busy with marshaling our troops," Adam's voice bit through with bitterness. "We have no time for _replies_. You will wait on _my_ command."

Clara/OLENNA

"It's only a scratch," Clara had shrugged, sitting in the chambers of maester Lomys, as he dabbed at her wounds and scrapes.

Her vanity would not suffer for the over large scar on her face; it had already denued every day of waking up in this irritable bowels of this woman. Yet the fall had been broken not quite as quickly as she had hoped.

And when the maester's back was turned, she eyed the shelf. And her beady eyes were soulful and sad; and that was the impression the maester would later recount to her son.

"You should rest, for a few days… I should think to give word to Lord Tarly who is feasting tonight."

And with a sigh that belied her impatience, as much as she hoped to parrot subservience, she tottered out to where Erryk and Arryk were standing.

"Keep a closer eye on the Lady, will you?" the maester implored, and the guards nodded as one.

Clara saw the casks and barrels rolled in; no doubt Lord Randyll and his son were enjoying a feast which she did not intend to interrupt and spoil. She had already taken the measure of Dickon, and knew now Mace was implacably her enemy against her wishes.

And as she tightly gripped her hand, she would not intend for him to tell her how to live.

She laid in bed and watched and waited, and when the Tarlys had left, she joined the others at the dinner feast where lemon cake was being served. And she stole the largest piece, en route to Mace by a servant, who blushed and whispered to her lordship.

"Mother," he called to her, her face stuffed with sweets. "It is not good for your digestion."

"And it is for you?" Clara bickered, and finished her piece. She moodily let the servant return the plate to Mace, who greedily took the rest; and considered his mother a well spent piece; her infirm body hopefully shook to some satisfaction from the fall.

Clara shook, but not with rage. And others in the hall felt sorry for her, that she should so feebly grasp for dominance over her son, whose stature was rising.

"It sticks in my gums," Clara made unnecessary attention to, and when a lighter plate was served, began coughing. She spilled wine over her dress, and claimed faint headedness.

And when Clara was led upstairs by Erryk and Arryk, bathed and changed for sleep, she listened to the howl of the wind outside, Highgarden hardly the precipice of heavens, and kept her stony eyes on the canopy of her bed, and waited for the bells to toll.

Max/THEON

Max watched as the Stark bannermen poured through Winterfell; and they never gave him much leave by way of their looks and snide comments, and he felt the fury course in his gut.

If _he_ had been the lord or the son of one of these Stark bannermen, he could easily prove his worth; as it was, he was a glorified hostage who happened to carry arms. It did not sit with him well, that a deep seated urge to prove himself, would never raise himself in the eyes of these wintry northmen.

Yet he sat on Robb's council, who proved himself to his bannermen to be Ned Stark's son, and faintly admired the boy. Max's eyes glittered beneath a snide mask of arrogant unconcern; Theon's look, he knew. And he caught Roose Bolton's gaze, and glanced away.

 _No one must ever know_ , Max reminded himself, but Boltons' gaze remained for a smidgen more. And so with the roar and tumult following deliberations to march, Max swept himself up in it: surely Roose Bolton could only be suspicious for _Theon_ 's intentions, not for Max's. And the game everyone was playing was war on the Lannisters, while Max would gladly duck out if he could, to play for another side if he could.


	5. Chapter 5

Adam/WALDER

"Father," Ser Stevron turned on his heel. "The Lady Catelyn Stark."

Adam watched from the high table, miserable and morose as the fair red headed woman walked forth, and so proudly with her Tully lineage, professed a yearning to cross and a deliberation which she did not have time to bicker and banter. He dismissed everyone but her.

"Lady Catelyn," Adam considered the title. "Why? Why when I will be dead in any moon?"

Tantamount to Adam's hesitation was that he knew where the story would curl. He would only be accommodating a series of events which he would not see the fruits or labors of. He was only _assisting_ the storyline, and what was the point? When Ser Stevron initially reported Robb's army approaching, Adam had wanted to dither as expertly as a civil servant and sent a _rider_ to the Lannisters, not a raven which would only be shot down by Theon. He had no particular enmity towards the Starks, but he did revere the Lannisters. Yet Walder Frey, Adam knew, was right: the Lannisters did not ask him; the Starks were. And his weakness was that others needed him; or at least, he presumed they did, and so he clung to his association with Clara and Max even as they dismissed most his ideas.

"Perhaps it could be that Robb could be betrothed to one of your girls," Catelyn offered, among other entreaties about squires and wards and lesser things Adam cared not.

"Yes," Adam considered, but knowing what very well could happen, decided to intercede even more on Robb's honor learned from his father. "Yet only a betrothal? Why not a wedding?"

" _Time_ is of the essence," Catelyn entreatied, and Adam could not argue with her. He had no desire to watch a hurried wedding play out while Tywin Lannister brooded with twenty thousand men. He could not visualise his victory.

"Then perhaps a betrothal for now," Adam considered. "My Roslin will travel with your Robb. No doubt there is some scheme, some plan which might wrest Riverrun from the Lannisters with speed and secrecy?"

Catelyn remained silent; with speed and secrecy was the urgency for the plan.

"Then my Roslin will travel with you, among other retainers," Adam raised his eyebrows. "And once Riverrun is retaken, the wedding will be carried out there."

"My lord - "Catelyn interrupted.

"No," Adam held up his hand. "Whatever your plans from Riverrun might be, surely a night can be for the most simplest of feasts, a septon and a bedding. And then the Starks and Freys shall be truly joined in marriage."

Catelyn knew her son was bound to a Frey marriage if he agreed to a betrothal; the logistics of a wedding could well be carried out if they were to break the siege of Riverrun and defeat Jaime Lannister. Yet Walder's insistence needled her. Was her word, and the word of her son, not good enough that he would one day marry? Yet she knew the worth of Walder Frey, and to this she agreed.

"Good," Adam waved his hand, and gave his accent that almost all but a pitiable garrison go forth with Robb; and expected double that garrison remain of northerners as goodwill for his word. He could not afford any missteps.

But given that by the end of the year, he meant to at least see that the lion's tail was curbed, he did not see any reason to also bargain that Theon stay behind. The slim, arrogant youth's eyes darted everywhere from where Adam watched on the balcony.

Had Adam expected the simulation to last longer, he would have kept Theon as a 'treasured guest' and could not have been refused if they wanted to pass; if Adam was to rein in a Stark victory, he could scarcely afford Theon bungling it up by attacking the north.

And so with some sour satisfaction did Adam watch Robb Stark lead his horse south to Riverrun and Roose Bolton take the majority foot down towards Lord Tywin, and knew Roslin was safe in keeping, even if he had no particular love for any of the Freys.

Yet being a powermonger, in some small way, was sure to help buff his ego for events to come. At least Roslin would have a handsome, capable husband… and if he could at least provide that for someone, even if the simulation were to end before anything _serious_ happened in Westeros… well, he could hold off his complete misery of inhabiting this body till then.

Knowing his misery would last… that would be a torment worth throwing himself in the Green Fork, if he wasn't such a coward, he knew.

Clara/OLENNA

The bells did toll, but also for the king, and the tumult which erupted was one in which Clara _almost_ wanted to lay in bed for; but she knew she had to take action, and with the hysteria with which _she_ might have fallen prey to whatever had claimed the life of her son, she ordered investigations and ordered Erryk to whip the serving girl and decried it all as a coincidence.

The funeral, however harried and rushed, was one in which Alerie cried softly and Willas, not broken but certainly no rock, comforted his family, he who was now Lord of Highgarden and head of House Tyrell. Margaery wept and Garlan comforted her and Clara railed, she played her part well, she _could_ have died; surely it was poison?

Otherwise, the eyes of House Tyrell somberly eyed the bier of the Fat Flower, wheezed shut at last. A good man, who had once defeated Robert in battle, it was said.

And with that Clara closed _her_ eyes and tried to summon some patience. It had taken this long, and already war had broken out: the king was dead, the Hand in the cells, and the boy-king's message had been for the Tyrells to come to King's Landing and bend the knee.

Clara had no such intention; she had received word of Renly and Loras fresh from the capital, quite overtaken by the loss of Mace, but urgency in their ride had been of death left behind. Things had to happen fast, they knew.

And with an iron clad grip on Willas' shoulder, who could've held the meeting yet _she_ was more in command of her faculties, took Renly and Loras into the hall.

"What about my brother?" Loras repeated, not hearing her as Clara led the way with Erryk and Arryk, the former who could not quite meet the eye of other girl servants.

"He is in distress, and the needs of House Tyrell can scarcely be said not to be met under my eye," Clara ordered the doors closed, and for her guards to leave them.

It was only Clara with Renly and Loras, a pair of handsome men, breathing heavily and steadily, sweat on their lip, for the loss of Mace, the loss of Robert, and the war to come.

"So," Clara settled, as she had been waiting to do. "I will hear your concerns."

"I petitioned Ned to take the regency, but," Renly spread his hands. "I could only scarper with Loras."

"And Joffrey writes," Clara held up the piece of parchment. "We are to make a U-turn."

"Excuse me?" Loras queried, and Clara shook her head.

"Are we to bend the knee to the Lannisters?" Clara asked them, and both wore outcry suddenly. "Exactly. Is Stannis the heir?"

"Well," Loras stumbled, and glanced to Renly. "Well - "

"You mean to crown Renly? Jump ahead in the succession through force of arms?" Clara queried, and caught them in the trap. "Well, such would work."

But Clara would not be in the simulation long enough to see the fruits of it. She did not want merely to assist the original plotline. She wanted some changes _her way_.

"Why not Stannis?" Clara barked, knowing of the storyline, knowing his slut of a red woman could do wonders to poo-poo the idea of a Renly-Margaery reign. "He's a bit grim and boring, but we'd take the capital sooner."

"Stannis is not who you want to be king," Renly was outraged, respectfully so as Clara raised her eyebrow. "The stormlands must rise behind me. I will lead them and Highgarden to victory. Don't you want to see your granddaughter as my queen?"

If Clara could poison Melisandre, she wouldn't hesitate. But she would not sit out the rest of the simulation watching Renly painstakingly host tournaments up the roseroad in lack of something more interesting or _her_.

"I say we join Stannis," Clara resolved. "His tinpot little army can't do jack right now. The strength of Highgarden _alone_ would take the capital."

"B-but," Loras stammered, as Renly fumed at the insult. "Margaery could not be queen. Are you angling to have him set Selyse aside?"

"He might, but it'll only take time, time I don't have," Clara dithered. "Don't you recall your father was _murdered_? I could have died, too!"

"How?" Loras asked, and Clara grew angry that his questioning, while only curious, sparked a possibility of suspicion. Renly's fists were already balled earlier.

"I say no, my lady," Renly stormed. " _I_ will not support Stannis, and neither should Highgarden. If you do not mean to crown me… "

"No, I do not," Clara fancied herself a minstrel with her tact. "You are not in the line of succession. And you can go sulk at Storm's End for all I care."

Renly stormed out, and Loras was left on the periphery.

"Is it to be your family, Loras?" Clara cocked her head. "Or Renly?"

Waves of anguish pulsated in Loras. And the loss of his father drew him deep. And only a young man, with a young man's fire, drowning in his grief. Clara could not quite take the measure of him.

"Your Renly has spoken out against the true king," Clara rose. "He is a traitor."

"I brought him here for refuge," Loras' face dawned with understanding.

" _We_ must survive, House Tyrell," Clara whacked her cane over to him. "And I would see us march on King's Landing without delay. In _Stannis'_ name."

Loras rushed out of the chambers, and Erryk and Arryk entered. Silence persisted, until a messenger came up the stairs and through the doors.

"Is it done?" Clara barked.

"Garlan has, with effort, subdued Loras," the messenger reported, forlorn. "He and Renly are being kept in separate cells."

Clara nodded and the messenger ran out. The tapping of a cane did not take long to form Willas, his brow harried, his visage still stained with grief.

"Grandmother?"

"Come in," Clara beckoned. "No doubt you are lord of Highgarden now; but the ravens have already flown. We are staking our side to Stannis; Margaery will wed the Tarly boy."

"Stannis - Margaery," Willas, bright boy that he was, could come to his own conclusions if he wasn't so hampered by his own grief. "Grandmother, there is a lot at stake - "

"And I will suggest you lie down," Clara patted his shoulder, a trace of guilt streaking like a silver arrow across her face, and he caught it. "I do what I do for the family."

"Yes, but - Loras imprisoned? I understand Renly cannot take the crown before Stannis… "

"Let me handle it," Clara added a bite to her voice. She would not suffer Willas turning into a Fat Flower, too. "We will have the Reach mobilised within the fortnight."

Max/THEON

Max could taste the blood; he rode alongside Robb to victory, watching as Jaime's forces were crushed beneath the onslaught of northern and riverland forces. At last he might swing his sword in the black and gold scabbard of his _true_ House, and kill as many Lannisters and westermen as possible, before it came to be that Jaime Lannister was dragged before Robb.

If Max were a master swordsman, it would be his pleasure to capture or kill Jaime himself; but he held no particular enmity for the man; moreso, he was sick of trying to ingratiate within the Stark camp.

All he was, was a ticking time bomb, and he waited gratuitously to press home the advantage. He knew he would not get the chance by the end of the year; but battle and victory was enough.

He watched as the siege of Riverrun fell apart, and rode into Riverrun when Robb claimed it, and heard the banging on the walls as Robb was proclaimed King in the North.

He sat in the hall of booming noise and lamented that the year was to come to an end. He at least would get to see a wedding; however quickly conscripted of Robb to the Frey girl. He didn't quite remember it happening in the plot, but then he hadn't really paid attention on anything other than the battle or gratuitous scenes.

He felt alone in the hall among the Starks and Tullys, and wished the year could have included a hop over to the Iron Islands, the command of krakens, and a much better job than Theon did… along with a stab in the gut to that infamous Ramsay.


End file.
